Pick a sub-class. 20 seconds.
She was stunning, with her luxurious, golden mane that glistened with the sunlight, her lithe, toned physique that flared into womanly curves, and her face that carried a certain regal intensity, looking cold and dispassionate even while she slept.
The young woman lay still, slender arms curled tightly around her pillow. A faint breeze brushed over, and she shivered. For a moment, one long, shapely legs tried rubbing against the other, when it suddenly jerked back down.
Sarah McMillan’s body woke up. And with it, Jon screamed.
Pick a sub-class. 15 seconds.
“Where—Why—How!?”
He gaped about, gauging his surroundings and pretending to ignore the body’s uncontrolled jiggling. It wasn’t just him that changed, he was in the wrong bedroom. It was too big, luxurious and feminine, the kinda thing that’d belonged to a rich teenage girl.
A pause. That wasn't even the weirdest part.
Three mannequins were floating before him. Each in a different uniform, and each with a hovering caption in glowing letters.
The Cheerleader. It was the school’s cheerleader costume. Or at least an approximation to it. Jon never went to the games, so he couldn’t be sure if the skirt was supposed to be that short, or if the midriff was supposed to be bare. The pompoms were most certainly not supposed to glow, that was for sure.
The Fashionista. A red, ruffled, open-shoulder blouse, paired with black jeggings and heeled ankle boots. It was very, very bold, and very, very feminine—Jon gawked at how… ‘Vibrant’ the ensemble was. Hell, its over the shoulder purse looked more expensive than his used car.
The Queen-Bee. Bright and pink and gaudy; slapped onto a typical “good girl” look, with Mary Janes and an oversized sweater. The sorta thing Sarah would normally like to wear, if she’d just walked off the set of Heathers or something.
Pick a sub-class. 10 seconds.
Jon took a panicked breath, winced at how pretty he sounded, and tried figuring this all out. It was his stupid wish, probably, but… What exactly did it do? Waking up in a girl’s body was one thing, but that didn’t explain the mannequins, or the floating words, or that weird, ominous voice—
Pick a sub-class. 5 seconds.
There it was again. ‘Pick a sub-class.’ Was this some kind of video game? And if so…
“What kind of crapshoot game is this!?”
No sub-class chosen. Randomly selecting…
